In Another Life
by Georgiaish
Summary: AU. Katniss never volunteered for Primrose. Twenty five years on, at her daughter's first reaping, she regrets the decision more than ever.


**Ok, so this is set in an alternative universe where Katniss doesn't volunteer to take Primrose's place in the games. Twenty five years on, she's still plagued by her silence. This is a piece where Katniss is reflecting on the day of her daughter's first reaping. It's a one-shot at the moment.**

**This isn't my greatest piece, nor am I too impressed with it, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!**

**Disclaimer - I don't own the Hunger Games or any of the characters you may recognise.**

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><p>The air in the house today is dark as though dust from the coal mines has seeped down through the chimney, and it seems so right that I haven't bothered to draw the curtains. The sky outside is clear and the light from the sun seems too bright against my eyes on such a bleak day.<p>

I am alone. Sleep is simply impossible, has been so for the past twenty five years on April 14th. Gale is still asleep, I think. Although how he can sleep is nothing short of a mystery to me; how anyone can sleep knowing that two children are going to die – plain and simple- is a mystery.

So I've been awake most of the night, watching the clock, watching the lightness grow behind the thin curtains, waiting for time to pass. This is where I am now. Stood in the kitchen of the small house on the outskirts of the seam that I've lived in for years, head pressed against the ripped cotton of the curtains, tears escaping my eyes and coursing steadily down my face.

I close my shaking hands around my mug of water and mint leaves and bring it slowly to my mouth.

He must have heard me crying as arms encircle my midriff before I even realise someone else had entered the room.

I lean into Gale's strong embrace and allow myself a few seconds of sacred comfort. In his arms, it's almost easy to forget the fear in our children's eyes, the solemn air that hangs over District 12; almost easy to forget that today's the day of the reaping for the ninety-ninth hunger games.

"Katniss," I feel him loosen his hold on me and I don't resist when he turns me round to face him.

I look into his eyes, the dull pale grey mirroring my own pain. His eyes have lost some of their spark from when I first met him, twenty eight years ago in the woods we no longer dare enter. The war and twelve hour days down the mines have aged him considerably; grey streaks his once dark hair and his olive skin sags around his eyes and lips. He has maintained his figure, slim with strong arms, but hunger and poverty has left his face gaunt and cheekbones hollow, similar to when we first met.

The high chain-link fence that surrounds all of District 12 is permanently buzzing with a deadly voltage now, whereas a lifetime ago it would rarely be on for an hour a day. After the war, the Capitol's strict disciplinary programme increased ten-fold and it's no longer safe to hunt, or even step foot in the woods. It would be good to have game again though, but the penalty of death is something neither of us can afford, meat or no meat.

"There are thousands of names, Katniss. Mell's not going to be picked." His voice is soft, almost convincing, but I can hear myself a lifetime ago telling my younger sister the same thing, only to have to unthinkable happen.

"But her name's in the pool ten times" I whisper into Gale's shoulder. "And Prim's name was only in once whe-" I can't continue.

I used to believe that there was no worse feeling in the world than fear of your own life and no worse place to be than in your designated area waiting for your name to be pulled out of the glass bowl.

How wrong I'd been.

_This _is why I never wanted kids. I can feel the fear consuming me in a way I never felt possible before. To have them face this, to bring them into a world where not even their safety could be guaranteed, was pure selfishness, but Gale had wanted them so badly.

There had been a period after the war when the Capitol had shown mercy on the defeated districts, ensuring enough food and safe working conditions in the mines for 12, and it seemed… safe. Revolutionists were taken care of quietly in the Capitol and Gale and I escaped with our lives by keeping a low-profile in 12 throughout the duration of the six year war. He'd wanted to go and fight, to join the revolution that would have resulted in his death, but after Prim died I knew he wouldn't leave me.

It was as though I was sitting in a dark room with no windows and no possible way of leaving. Gale was my only light and gradually, over months, he'd managed to coax me out of depression that I swore after my father's death that I'd never fall into. He had been so loving, had given up so much for me that it seemed only fair to marry him. I knew he loved me and the Capitol was putting pressure on all districts to repopulate after the devastating loss of live suffered in the war, so the price on marriage was high and bread didn't pay for itself.

The games continued after the war, of course. And as punishment for the revolution, each district now has to give two tributes that are aged eleven to seventeen and the price for tesserae was raised. Because of this, Mell's name is in the pool ten times, and it's only her first games.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes and I can feel myself trembling in Gale's embrace.

"Ssh. There's nothing you could have done. That's not going to happen to Mell." The rhythmic strokes of Gales hands up my arms soothes me somewhat and I allow myself the rare luxury of believing what he says is true. But I know that he's trying to console me; protect me from the haunting truth.

Of course there's something I could've done. I could have volunteered like I should have. Sweet, naive Prim with her untucked blouse forming a duck's tail, the very depiction of innocence. Her name had been one of thousands, just like my daughter's.

I hear footsteps descending slowly down the stairs and I pull away from Gale and dry my eyes on the back of my sleeve. He's still looking into my eyes, desperate to console me, but I don't meet his gaze.

They file into the kitchen one by one, slowly as though rehearsed.

Mellanie's first. She stands at the doorway for a few seconds, swaying slightly on her feet. Her olive skin is ashen as though she is certain to be picked as tribute, and I have seen the exact expression on someone just as small a lifetime ago. I stand looking down to her from across the room, desperate to offer some comfort that might ease her fears. But what? What can I possibly do? Nothing. I give her a small smile that I'm certain turns into a grimace on my lips.

She can only look away and Gale immediately scoops her up in his arms and holds her like I can't bring myself to do. She looks _so much _like Prim did that morning that I can barely keep myself together, let alone anyone else. Gale's always been much better at that, anyway.

Darrin follows quickly after his sister and looks mournfully at Gale who has returned Mell to the ground. He appears to have sunk to his knees but is still holding her in his arms, whispering into her ear as she sobs quietly. Darrin doesn't even glance in my direction, instead heads straight towards them and is immediately welcomed into the embrace. He is not crying or distressed as I expected he might be at witnessing his sister so. He is calm and pats his bony hands against Mell's back and tells her she has nothing to worry about.

I wish I could tell her the same thing, wish I could hold her with as much ease as Gale had done but my feet are rooted to the spot and instead I stand, detached from the group, thinking about things I wish I could bring myself to say. Have I always been so cold?

Luca stumbles in after his brother. At three, he is the only one that doesn't understand the games and what's going to happen today. He stands at the doorway, one hand in his wavy, dark hair, the other hanging limply by his side. He looks perplexed by the scene before him and he gazes up toward me as though demanding an explanation. I take a hesitant step towards my youngest son and suddenly he is running towards me and throwing his chubby arms around my neck, clinging tightly to me.

I don't know how long I stand there, holding my son in my arms, giving him the love I can't seem to give to Mell today. When I open my eyes, I see Gale through my blurred vision and don't hesitate when he pries Luca from me.

I nearly pull him back towards me but instead turn away from my family and slice them each a thick chunk of hard bread and we eat in a painful silence, no-one having anything to say.

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><p>The square's already packed with people when we arrive and hundreds more continue to file in for the next ten minutes. It never fails to amaze me how thousands of people can be so deafeningly silent.<p>

I watch Mellanie shuffle to her place and stand rigid, surrounded by other girls I don't recognise. Most of them are taller than she is and several look slightly better fed although the stench of poverty hangs over all the potential tributes as it only can in District 12. Darrin clings to Gale's leg and Luca's in his arms. I stand hugging myself against the growing feeling of claustrophobia and nausea that is rising in my stomach.

The square's packed now and people branch off into the side streets where they can watch the reaping on screens as it's televised. I find myself staring into the giant glass bowl on the makeshift stage which contains thousands of slips. In neat writing, ten of them will have Mellanie Primrose Hawthorne written on them. _But there are thousands of slips._ I tell myself and my breathing manages to regulate itself again.

The only sounds are quiet murmurs and Gale's slow and even breathing beside me, but the Capitol representative, a well-fed woman with curly purple hair and dark make-up, calls for silence anyway from her position in the centre of the stage.

It always sickens me to see people from the Capitol, fatter and cockier than before their victory in the war, and they seem to reveal in our misery still. Gurda has been District 12's escort for fifteen years and not a single tribute has been kept alive under guidance. Beside her, sat on one of three chairs is the only living tribute from District 12, a boy I used to know – Peeta Mellark.

The boy with the bread. The boy who kept my sister alive for longer than I could, until the final three. The boy whose arms she died in.

He is looking directly at me. He seems to have sought me out among the thousands and he doesn't look away when he sees I've caught him staring. He is slumped in his chair, looking the same he does every year; more aged, eyes more lined and _always looking at me. _

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever _in your favour!"

Gurda churns out the same speeches that have been read out at reaping's for the last ninety nine years. I don't pay attention although I can recite them practically word for word, as I am transfixed – as I am every year- on Peeta Mellark.

I only look away when Gurda moves towards the first reaping ball which her signature "Ladies first!" and plunges her hand deep into the bowl, where it seems to stay for hours. The crowd is silent and I can hear blood pounding in my ears as I stare at the back of my only daughter's head, her dark plaits have become messed in the wind and my stomach sinks to see that her blouse has become untucked from her skirt.

Gale suddenly clutches my hand as Gurda pulls out a single slip and holds it up to the crowd, expecting to receive more than stony silence. She clears her throat and pulls open the paper, drinking in the name before announcing clearly, so to not be mistaken, my daughter's name.

"Mellanie Primrose Hawthorne."

My blood turns to ice. I think I try to gasp, but no sound comes out. Someone has wrapped their arms around me, to stop me from running, but they needn't have bothered. I am on the ground before I even feel myself falling.

Images flash through my mind suddenly of Prim. Prim being reaped. Prim having her first interview. Prim entering the arena looking more terrified than any of the other tributes. Prim hiding from careers. Prim taking a knife to the chest. Prim dying as Peeta Mellark sang _my _song to her.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm__  
><em>_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

I try to scream, but I am too late. Twenty years too late and my words catch in my throat. Peeta Mellark is staring at me again and for the first time he looks away first, to the small girl whose life is now in his hands.

This time there's nothing I can do to save the innocent child with a duck's tail whom I love more than I can ever bring myself to show. She shuffles up to the stage and I can see her face clearly, ashen in shock and her childish features seem aged far beyond their eleven years. There is an echo of silence when Gurda calls for volunteers.

An echo all too familiar.

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><p><strong>Review?<strong>


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